Ethics & the Environment

Ethics & the Environment 8.2 (2003) 31-41

Threescore and Ten
Fire, Place, and Loss in the West

David Strohmaier

The only conclusion I have ever reached about trees is that I love all trees, but I am in love with pines.

—Aldo Leopold, A Sand County Almanac ¹

He died protecting his pines. It was spring, 1948, and Aldo Leopold was spending time with his family at their beloved cabin they called "the Shack." Over the years, he had planted close to 30,000 trees and shrubs on the property, trying to resuscitate a tired Wisconsin sand farm into some semblance of ecological health. ² Leopold was keenly aware of fire's natural role in ecosystems, but sometimes there's more to fire and living with fire than energy flow, nutrient flush, and plant physiology. ³

During the Leopolds' stay at the Shack, a neighbor's trash fire, fanned by a west wind, escaped its bounds and threatened to overtake the pines. Alone, along one flank of the fire, Aldo suffered a heart attack and was later found dead, lying on his back in the smoldering grass. ⁴ For the love of pines.

In A Sand County Almanac (accepted for publication just one week before his death), Leopold explores several possible reasons for his bias [End Page 31] towards pines: maybe it's because he planted the pines, or pines are rare where he lives, or pines have a longer life expectancy than other trees, or pines are evergreens, or because his neighbors don't have many pines on their land, or pines are worth more to the lumberman than other species, or pines engender more plant diversity than other species. In the end, he concludes that

our plant biases reflect not only vocations but avocations, with a delicate allocation of priority as between industry and indolence. The farmer who would rather hunt grouse than milk cows will not dislike hawthorn, no matter if it does invade his pasture. The coon-hunter will not dislike basswood, and I know of quail hunters who bear no grudge against ragweed, despite their annual bout with hayfever. Our biases are indeed a sensitive index to our affections, our tastes, our loyalties, our generosities, and our manner of wasting weekends. ⁵

Leopold's last act in life—fighting a fire endangering something he valued—testifies to the tension between Leopold's concept of thinking like a mountain and our reality of living in the present, between mountain time and human time. It's doubtful that the landscape around the Shack would have suffered permanent damage even if the fire overran his pines. Some trees would have burned and died, but, eventually, the land would revegetate and more pines could be planted. But for humans who, according to the psalmist, live but "[t]hreescore and ten, or even by reason of strength fourscore," ⁶ we may never see our pines, or any other part of the landscape, fully healed, assuming it even can be. One tree, or grove of trees, is not necessarily interchangeable with another. Places can be lost and never replaced. This is one reason why philosopher Robert Elliot is so skeptical of ecological restoration. Like a work of art, simply replacing it with the most exacting replica will never fully replace the original, for part of an object's value derives from its history: who painted or sculpted it, when it was crafted, the reason behind its contours and colors. ⁷ Not only are exact replicas in nature hard to come by (even though our science and technology of restoration is improving), but some values can never be restored.

Some things are worth protecting from fire simply because they're important to us—even a part of us—and not necessarily because they're resources on their way to becoming beef, venison, or two-by-fours. What's critical, though, as we struggle to live in a land that burns, is getting clear about how we want that land to look and why. I fear that we...